


Swamp Date

by ValiantBarnes (Cimila)



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:53:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29281017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cimila/pseuds/ValiantBarnes
Summary: Orakh will, reluctantly, admit that the curses aren't malignant or overly damaging. They're just -Funny,Harry chuckles,very funny,- annoying as hell. Every step she takes in the swamp shouts out her presence. Literally. 'Over here,' says the ground under her right foot, 'here now' gurgles the mud under her left, each and every footstep as she goes. That one night where she glowed the same colours as the rainbow in rapid, nauseating succession. Now thereptiles.Ridiculous. Even if she wasn't getting gold for ousting the swamp witch from their hovel, she's do it for nothing more than revenge and spite at this point.
Relationships: Cursed Female Knight/Swamp Witch, Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	Swamp Date

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ForsythiaRising](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForsythiaRising/gifts).



> Happy Valentines day, my friend! Hope you have a great day!  
> I hope you enjoy this! For some reason the summary would only be written in Orakh's pov, counter to the rest of the story lmao

“And that Swamp  _ Bitch _ -!”

“Maybe she wouldn’t curse you so much if you didn’t curse her out so much,” Harry says, lounging on a particularly soft piece of moss, watching with amusement as her new adventuring partner Orakh paces back and forth across their campsite. She’s stomping, really, and still managing to be quieter than when she was trying to creep through the swamp. Of course, Orakh has been cursed so that every time her feet touch swampland, they loudly announce her presence.

Trying to sneak when the very ground itself was hollering _‘here!’, ‘over here!’, ‘angry knight coming through,’_ _‘oh, she’s_ ** _really_** _mad now, watch out!’_

Orakh’s face had been hidden behind her helm, of course, but she’d worn her anger in every line of her body. Orakh, being Orc raised, is very,  _ very  _ comfortable with anger. Less comfortable when she has no outlet for it. What is she going to do, attack her own feet? Harry bites down a giggle at the thought. What a ridiculous sight that would make - this small human woman, bellowing an Orcish war cry and raging against her own feet.

Despite Harry’s best attempts to smother her humour, her shoulders shake a little bit. And her shoulders, being so large as they are, are not subtle. Orakh, stomping and shedding armour as she went, glared across the clearing at her. Harry grinned back, wide and unashamed of herself. Orakh’s eyes flick down to her tusks for a moment, brow easing for a moment, before she scowls again. Likely she’d been comforted by some piece of Orcish body language that Harry doesn’t even know she’s projecting.

Harry, unlike Orakh, was not raised by Orcs. Instead, Harry was raised by a bunch of rowdy Elves. An entirely mischievous bunch, truthfully, so Harry the elf-orc has always fit right in. What a pair the two of them make, she muses, watching as Orakh sheds pieces of her armour as she stomps. Step, step, a gauntlet flung to the forest loam, step, step, snarl at the buckle of her right vambrace. Several steps, which struggling with the buckles on her cuirass. The trio of reptiles float easily after her, unworried by Orakh’s anger or her loud voice.

“Shut up, Harry,” Orakh seethes, “I’m going to shove my entire fist-”

“Don’t need to hear your date plans, Orakh,” Harry interrupts, mostly because she thinks it’s adorable to watch Orakh’s tanned face turn a dull, splotchy red. Orakh, obligingly, does exactly that. She also makes a sound that, previously, Harry hadn’t been aware human throats could make. Of course, the amount of time Harry’s spent around humans is also very low. This is her first trip outside of the enclave, you see. She’d never particularly been interested in the places beyond the borders of their land, much too entertained by her family and friends. Needs must, however, and Harry’d been the one chosen for this mission.

Now, Harry’s wondering why she didn’t venture out before. Of course, it wouldn’t have been nearly as entertaining without Orakh. For someone who likes tricks and mischief as much as the next person - though, Harry has learnt, the world at large seems to like such things  _ much  _ less than the Elvish wix and mages and sorcerers who raised her - Orakh is the perfect travelling partner. Very easy to fluster, easy to rile. Harry would say she’s the perfect straight man except, well, judging by the way Orakh’s been looking at her,  _ straight  _ has nothing to do with it.

Orakh finally pulls the cuirass free, letting it drop to the ground with an almighty clatter. She lets out a terribly exciting bellow, loud voice echoing through the trees. The pair of baby caiman hover just behind her head, giggling. The cottonmouth - Patrice - slithers her way through the air until she’s hovering just in front of Orakh’s face.

“Temper, temper,” she hisses, easily dodging the swipe Orakh makes for her, laughing in that odd way snakes tend to. The toddler caiman echo her, beginning to circle Orakh at roughly shoulder height, swimming through the air.

“Temper, temper, temper, temper,” Dante and Dani shout, voices already deep despite their small size. Harry can’t stop herself this time, laughing loudly, her boisterous amusement chasing away the last echoes of Orakh’s enraged howl from earlier. Patrice curls in the air, peals of laughter twisting her sinuous length as she coils over herself repeatedly, hissing continuously.

“SHUT  _ UP! _ YOU TOO, HARRY” Orakh shouts, utilising amazing lung capacity for a woman whose nose is level with Harry’s elbows. The camp turns mostly silent. The surrounding wildlife has long since been scared away, the small caiman are sulking, letting the curse pull them in a steady rotation around Orakh’s head as they pout. Patrice is still laughing, of course; Harry knows quite well that there aren’t many beings who can successfully tell her what to do.

Harry lets her laugh taper out, unoffended. Orakh, she’s come to understand, is used to being loud and rude. Whatever manners Orc have, they aren’t easily translatable to other sentient species. Harry doesn’t mind. Cultural differences are important! Besides, she kind of wants to see the look on the Grand Mages face when she shares a meal with Orakh. What better fun is there than tormenting your relatives, after all?

Of course,  _ how  _ Harry is going to convince Orakh to come all the way to the heart of the enclave, she doesn’t know. So far, Orakh’s still concerned with the task of ‘evict the swamp witch off their land.’ Getting her to venture into the very heart of the swamp might take some fast talking. Might also need to remove the curse that announces Orakh’s presence every step. Funny as it is now, Harry can see how it’d become annoying a few days into a week long trip. 

Actually, at the moment Orakh’s mainly seems to be concerned with the task of fighting with her thigh plates. Being angry isn’t conducive to dextrous work, like unfastening buckles. Harry heaves herself to her feet, meandering across the small clearing they’ve set up camp until she’s standing in front of Orakh, towering over her bent form. From this angle, Orakh’s short, black hair is an absolute riot, both plastered to her skull and sticking up with sweat from the run back from where the swamp witch’s hut supposedly is. It’s a good look for her, covered in a light sheen of sweat.

Harry might be a little biased, of course, but she’s certain that Orakh doesn’t mind.

Orakh stops pawing at the buckles and stands straight once more (though it doesn’t even out the height difference nearly so much as the human would like). They stare at each other for a long moment, tension building between them. One day, Harry’s going to let it draw out long enough until Orakh snaps under the weight of it and finally does something. For now, she still has patience and the game of it is half the fun.

“Let me?” Harry asks, gesturing to Orakh’s legs. Orakh nods and Harry goes to her knees easily, staring at Orakh the whole while. Ah, truly, the sight of Orakh’s olive toned skin turning splotchy red is a treat all of its own. Harry reaches out, her own mottled green skin a stark contrast to the darkened metal covering Orakh’s legs. The human moves her right leg to the side, obligingly, allowing Harry access to the buckles. The thigh is already undone, Orakh’s struggles not totally in vein, leaving Harry the buckles attached poleyn and greave.

Harry could break eye contact and look towards the buckles. She doesn’t. Instead, she places one hand on the back of Orakh’s thigh and slowly, ever so slowly, runs her hand along skin warmed cloth until she finds the fastening. Orakh’s mouth parts slightly, her black eyes searing into Harry’s own. The buckle is easy enough to undo. Harry does the same thing to find the next buckle, basking in the feel of Orakh under her hands. The legs armour is places gently to the side once it’s completely unfastened, Harry much more respectful of the metal than its owner.

“I can probably get the other leg,” Orakh rasps, tongue flicking out to wet her lips briefly. Harry wants to chase the tongue with her own, as she has every moment since first seeing the gesture.

“I like the view from down here,” Harry admits, smirk curling around her tusks, and Orakh lists towards her for a too brief moment before she straightens, clearing her throat and looking away. It doesn’t quite break the tension between them, the atmosphere which has been building for longer than this single afternoon. They’ve travelled together for weeks, now, ever since Harry figured out who, exactly, the town had hired. Weeks of never being further apart than a few meters, bathing together in rivers, laying their bedrolls side by side. This, Harry now knows, explains why all the people who patrol their borders are fucking each other. There’s something about such forced closeness which breeds familiarity; affection.

Orakh concentrates on unfastening her gambeson, suddenly avoiding eye contact. Brash as she is in every other aspect, in this matter Orakh has hesitated every step of the way. Why, Harry doesn’t know. She’s content to wait until the other woman figures it out, one way or the other.

Harry runs her hands along Orakh’s other leg, unfastening buckle after buckle, letting her dull claws drag across cloth covered skin as she does so. Orakh shivers, leans into the touch. It’s could be a quick task. Harry drags it out long enough that she’s removing the plate at the same time Orakh pulls open the gambeson. Harry is absolutely shameless as she runs her eyes along Orakh’s muscular torso, not at all concealed by the sweat soaked cloth which clings to her.

“So, ah, what… what we were talking about?” Orakh asks, shrugging out of the thick gambeson. Harry curls one of her hands around the back of Orakh’s thigh, cautiously at first, but with more strength when Orakh doesn’t withdraw from her touch.

“Your next  _ especially  _ successful plan to trespass on witch ground at the behest of a greedy town council, which definitely won’t end with yourself most handsome self cursed again?”

“Tch,” Orakh says, haphazardly folding her gambeson before throwing it towards her pack. “A mission’s a mission. Pays well. If the swamp witch didn’t want to get ousted, they should’ve, I dunno, paid taxes. Or something.”

“I rather think the witch enclave was here before the town,” Harry says, rubbing her thumb into to side of Orakh’s thigh, memorising the little flutter of Orakh’s eyelids.

“That, ah, that’s above my pay grade. Wait - enclave? I thought there was only one?” She asks, crease starting to furrow her brows once more. Harry leans forward and presses a chaste skin to the sliver of silver visible between Orakh’s undershirt and her pants. Orakh makes a sounds as though Harry has punched all the air from her lungs and Harry pulls away, contrite.

“No patience at all, Harry,” Patrice hisses, very visibly amused as she twists herself into knots over Orakh’s shoulder. Harry doesn’t have time to snap back at her before Orakh’s hands tentatively come up to cup either side of Harry’s face. 

“Do you… like… me?” She asks, each word quieter than the last. Harry nods, exuberantly enough that she almost headbuts Orakh in the stomach. She’s been told she has a hard head but Harry isn’t sure how well it’d hold up against Orakh’s frankly ridiculous abs. 

“Very much,” Harry admits easily. She leans forward once more, slowly enough to telegraph her intentions. Orakh makes no move to stop her, calloused hands gentle on Harry’s broad face, and Harry presses a kiss to the same place. This time, her tusks scrape against skin.

_ “Gol’Kosh,” _ Orakh groans, hands sliding into Harry’s silk smooth, silvery hair. Harry doesn’t speak any Orcish but she’s pretty sure Orakh isn’t complaining. She pulls away once more to find Orakh staring directly at her, flushed dusky red from the tips of her ears to her collarbones. Ah, so beautiful.

“Would you-”

“Yes,” Orakh doesn’t let her finish her question, sinking to her knees as well. Not exactly what Harry was going to say, or ask, but she doesn’t mind this direction either. Very much doesn’t mind when Orakh uses her grip on Harry’s hair to pull her down into a kiss. It’s very much not the chaste brush of lips that Harry had expected. From the cautious way Orakh had been circling around the lust between them, to the shy question of moments ago, Harry had apparently gotten the very wrong impression.

Orakh fairly devours her mouth, biting at her lips, licking her way inside with the same confidence she approaches everything else. Harry wraps one hand around Orakh’s waist, the other coming up to cup the back of her head when -

Scales, bumping against the back of her wrist. Ah. Right. She cracks one eye open and, yep, there they are. Dante and Dani are staring at them, wide eyed and curious. Patrice - who should very much know better - is slithering above the pair of them, twisting herself into truly obscene shapes. Voyeurs, the lot of them. Harry flicks her fingers at them and the three of them obediently float in the direct of the treeline, heading back to the swamp, ‘curse’ broken. 

Harry wonders how long it’ll take Orakh to notice their absence and what she’ll make of it. Her mischievous grin is lost in their kiss. 

**Author's Note:**

> Gol'Kosh! = By my axe! according to the WoW wikia


End file.
